The signal
to fight for freedom rings round the world—from the Hopebridge school bell!

It was a bad
moment for John Maitland, the teacher at Hopebridge, a village in the Midlands, when
the walkie-talkie wireless set he had hidden in a satchel made itself heard in
the classroom.

He must have knocked the switch
over when he was putting it away and now a muffled voice, using the timetable
code of the British Resistance Movement which was operating against the
Kushantis, made itself heard. The incident took place early in 1969, the year
after the Kushanti hordes from the East completed their conquest of the West and
occupied Great Britain,
except for a mountainous bit of Scotland. Mr
Kade, the Kushanti official known as the Inquirer, was in the school, the first
school to be re-opened after the war, and he heard the voice from the satchel.
The satchel hung from a peg. His eyes gleaming with suspicion behind his
enormous glasses, his false teeth protruding prominently, Mr Kade stalked
towards the satchel. The walkie-talkie set had been issued to Maitland by the
Fifth Resistance Regiment, which operated in the Midlands and to
which he belonged. During the war against the Kushantis, Maitland had been a
sergeant in the First Battalion Royal Warwickshire Regiment, of which he
believed he was the only survivor. The armies of the West had been overpowered
by sheer numbers in a war in which atomic weapons had not been employed.
Maitland had recently learned the crafty Kushantis, before starting the war,
had kidnapped or killed the scientists who could work the weapons. Now the
Resistance Movement had trained men in their use and the weapons, which had
been hidden, might soon be brought into action. Mr Kade, who wore a pistol
holster, stabbed a finger at the satchel which belonged to young Eric Maitland,
the teacher’s brother. “There is a radio in the bag!” Kade hissed and then added
the sinister words, “It is ordered by a dictate of the Imperial Kushanti
Oligarchy that the possession of an illegal radio is punishable by the
immediate death of the culprit. I shall escort you to headquarters for
execution.” With that Mr Kade reached into the satchel and started to withdraw
the walkie-talkie. “Thank you very much,” answered Maitland cynically. “It is
extremely good of you—but I’m not coming!” Mr Kade pulled out his gun, but with
a punch that started from the hip, the teacher swept up his fist under the
Inquirer’s chin. A shower of false teeth fell from Mr Kade’s mouth and he
dropped as if he had been shot. His spectacles broke. He sprawled insensible.

Maitland stepped back into the room
and silenced the excited chatter of the children, some of whom had been able to
see what happened. “Get on quietly with your lessons,” he said, “and when you
get out of school be sure you don’t chatter. You understand, don’t you?” John
dared not say more for there were microphones hidden in the walls and connected
up with the Kushanti headquarters so that anything said in the classroom could
be overheard by the Conquerors. However, his words could be interpreted as the
usual warning he gave to the children at the end of lessons. But to make sure
that the children understood that what he really wanted was for them to keep
quiet about what had just happened, he gave a meaning glance and nodded to
where Mr Kade sprawled unconscious. The children caught on. “Yes, we
understand, teacher,” they chorused. Moving back into the porch, John beckoned
to Eric. The teacher’s first action was to switch off the walkie-talkie. Eric
raised a grin. “You handed him a wallop,” he whispered. “I had to flatten him,”
answered Maitland, who had been a good boxer. Eric’s smile faded quickly away.
“What are you going to do?” he asked worriedly. “The Kushies would kill you for
hitting him.” “we’re going to make it look like an accident,” said Maitland
crisply, and told Eric his plan. “We shall have to wait till some Kushanti is
near enough to see Mr Kade fall.” “Mr Kade might regain consciousness first,”
Eric answered. “I don’t think he will,” Maitland retorted, “but if he does I’ll
hit him again!” Eric picked up the halves of the Inquirer’s broken spectacles.
They were included in the plan.

Fang Is Fooled

About twenty
minutes had passed when Captain Fang, the commander of the local garrison,
strutted out of the headquarters house over which flew the black flag of the
Kushantis with the emblem of the Yellow Sword.

With his curved sword swinging,
Fang paced along. A Kushanti sentry brought up his rifle in salute. Fifty yards
or so away was the school, which had a wall round the playground. Fang was
returning the salute when he casually noticed Mr Kade coming out of the school
porch. Because Fang could only see Mr Kade’s head and shoulders over the wall,
the Captain did not suspect that the Inquirer was being supported by Maitland
and Eric. Keeping low, careful not to be seen over the wall, the Maitlands
carried Mr Kade the short distance to the gate. The teacher had pushed an arm
up inside the Inquirer’s tunic to prop his sagging body upright. “Let him go
now,” whispered Maitland by the gate. When they released their grasp Mr Kade
toppled out of the gateway and lay face downwards on the footpath. Eric
scuttled back into school. Maitland arranged one of the Inquirer’s feet so that
his toe was behind the step, making it appear he had tripped, and then crept
back after his brother. They waited a few tense moments in the porch and then
Eric dashed out dramatically. “Mr Kade’s fallen over!” he shouted. After a
short pause Maitland strode out of the school. “Help him up, Eric!” he
exclaimed. “I think he’s bashed his head!” Eric answered. “Perhaps he tripped
because he couldn’t see.” Captain Fang did not hurry. He sauntered to the scene
as if the fall of the civilian official was of no personal concern to him.
Maitland pointed to Mr Kade’s limply-closed hand which held the pieces of his
spectacles. “Mr Kade dropped his glasses in school and they broke,” he said to
Captain Fang. “I suppose he is very short-sighted without them.” “He is too
short-sighted to be a soldier,” snapped Fang contemptuously. “He has taken a
nasty knock,” said Maitland. “Have I your permission to take him to the
doctor?” Captain Fang gave a disinterested nod and turned to watch the approach
of a long convoy.

At the head of the convoy was an
open car with a wireless aerial at the side of the front seat. A Major sat
beside the driver. Behind them, with a hand on a rail, stood a trooper with a
yellow “bat.” The car stopped and Fang brought up his hand in salute. The Major
spoke to him in Kushanti and appeared to be asking the way. The language was
just a jabber to Maitland, but he picked up two words. “Waaick Kessel.”
Maitland believed this to be the Kushantis’ attempt at saying “WarwickCastle.” Fang
turned towards the crossroads and pointed to the left. The car went ahead and
the signaler held out his bat to indicate the turn. Six of the lorries were
occupied by troops. Not only were they bigger men than the average Kushanti
soldier, their uniforms were of better quality and had brass instead of cloth
buttons. On the helmet of each soldier the Yellow Sword was enclosed in a
triangle. A number of covered vehicles followed and then bellowings were heard
and a cattle truck passed by. An armoured car brought up the rear. Fang still
took no interest in Mr Kade. He spoke arrogantly to Maitland. “You saw the
soldiers,” he bragged. “They belong to the Imperial Kushanti Guards, the finest
regiment in the world.” Meanwhile, Eric had fetched two more of the bigger boys
out of school. They lifted the gate off its hinges, pulled Mr Kade on it and
used it as a stretcher. This they carried to the house where old Doctor Lewis
lived. Dr Lewis was at his window and came away to open the front door
agitatedly. “My word, he’s had a nasty accident,” he said, looking down at the
Inquirer. “What hit him?” “My fist,” replied Maitland. Dr Lewis’s wrinkled face
showed how startled and concerned he was. “You’ll be in danger, John,” he said
hoarsely. “Can you keep him unconscious?” Maitland asked. “Can you stop him
talking for the next few days?” The worry went and the doctor’s eyes twinkled.
“Bring him in,” he said.

Behind The Picture

After school
Maitland walked down the street. He carried the bag his mother had used when
she went shopping in the old days. In the bag was the walkie-talkie. Sergeant
Ake, the senior non-commissioned officer of the local Kushanti garrison,
stepped out from the Village Institute, not the Kushanti barracks.

“What is in the bag?” he demanded.
Maitland faced him calmly. “I am going to get some potatoes,” he answered. “You
will go and get the potatoes,” barked Ake. “When you come back we shall take
half!” Maitland gave a nod and resumed his walk. He turned up a rutted track
and came to the patch of ground where Noddy Jones, who was thought to be
simple-minded, had his hovel, a ramshackle hut that somehow continued to
survive the winter gales. Noddy, wearing the top hat and rusty tailcoat that
were his dress as assistant to an undertaker, came out of the hovel. He was a
good gardener. “You’ve come for the taters, teacher,” he said. “Ay, I’ve got
plenty hidden away. I’ve diddled them Kushies,” he chortled. “I’ve got one
small tater clamp that they can see and a big ‘un that they’ve never found.”
“Noddy, while you’re getting the potatoes I want to use a wireless set I’ve
brought along,” stated Maitland. “I’m going to talk to the man with the scar on
his face who helped us to rescue the rector.” “Ha, ha, we diddled the Kushies
that night,” cackled Noddy. “When I’ve finished speaking I want you to hide the
set here,” said the teacher. “I’ll hide it where it won’t be found,” declared
Noddy. Maitland took the walkie-talkie out of the bag, which he passed to
Noddy. Then he went into the hovel. In a battered picture frame was a highly
tinted paper picture of Marshal Ku, the Kushanti Dictator, the President of the
Oligarchy, the ruthless criminal who had conquered the West. The secret British
Resistance Movement had intercepted and decoded Kushanti signals to the effect
that Marshal Ku was coming to Britain.
Maitland guessed that Noddy had put up the picture to impress the Kushantis if
they came snooping around.

The teacher tuned in the walkie-talkie
set and adjusted the headphones. The aerial was a coiled spring. As soon as he
gave his code sign he received an answer. The message that he put through in
code was—“Convoy with over one hundred Imperial Guards passed through village
and way was asked to WarwickCastle.”
Maitland realised that the speaker at Resistance headquarters was Major
Chesney, the leader. “Are you sure about the destination?” Chesney asked. “It’s
what it sounded like,” said Maitland. “Yes, I’d bet on it.” “Good enough,”
rapped Chesney. That ended the talking. Maitland had the aerial clipped down
and the phones replaced when Noddy shuffled in. Noddy put the bag of potatoes
on the table and then made a face in the direction of Marshal Ku’s picture.
“That’s how I always salute the fat pig,” he said. “Why hang up the picture?”
Maitland inquired. Noddy winked craftily. “I’ll show you, teacher,” he cackled,
and pulled the picture aside to reveal a cupboard well stocked with food.
“That’s where your walkie-talkie will go.” He picked up the set and put it in
the cupboard. “I’ve had the Kushies searching round here from time to time, but
they never touch the fat pig’s picture. Naw, they bends in the middle and bows
to it, Dafties!” He pulled the picture straight. Maitland was smiling as he walked
away. In some ways Noddy was far from being simple. He had certainly picked on
the Kushantis adulation of Marshal Ku to bluff them.

A Message For
Maitland

Maitland was still
at home in the morning, about a quarter to nine, when there was a bang on the
door. He found that the caller was Sergeant Ake. “You will come with me,” Ake
commanded.

It was to the headquarters house
that Ake took Maitland at a quick pace. A van stood outside. Troopers were
carrying packages from the vehicle into the building. The teacher had started
by wondering if his activities with the walkie-talkie had been discovered or if
the fact that he had biffed Mr Kade had leaked out. Now he ceased to fear for
himself and grew curious. A soldier fetched out a bundle of a dozen large
flagpoles with ornate tops from the van. A package broke open and a string of
yellow and black bunting dropped out. Ake escorted Maitland to a room where
Captain Fang stood by the table. Upon it was a cardboard box that the Captain
pushed towards the teacher. The lid was off the box and Maitland saw it
contained many small Kushanti flags, about a foot square and already attached
to their sticks. “Take these flags,” rapped Fang. “There are two for each child
at your school. You will immediately instruct the scholars in brandishing the
flags with enthusiasm. At three
o’clock you will march the children out of the school
premises for a rehearsal.” Maitland assumed surprise. “What’s the rehearsal
for?” he asked. “It is your duty to obey orders and not to ask questions,”
retorted Fang harshly. “It is stipulated that each scholar will wave two
flags.” Maitland carried the box away from the headquarters and, with his
knowledge that Marshal Ku was expected in Britain, the
reason for these preparations seemed to be clear. “It looks to me as if Ku is
going to stay at WarwickCastle,” he
muttered, “and that he will pass through Hopebridge on the way.” On getting
into school he found that many of the children had already arrived and he was a
minute or two late in ringing the bell. The children showed no desire to take
the flags when he started to distribute them. One of the sons of Len Horne, the
poacher, wiped his nose on the Yellow Sword of his flag. “I think somebody
important is going to visit Hopebridge,” Maitland told his pupils, “and though
you may not want to wave to him, its necessary that you do as you are told.”
During the morning, every house in Hopebridge received a large Kushanti flag to
be flown. The sound of engines grew louder and over the green flew a helicopter.
It landed and numerous Kushantis got out. They were not soldiers, but high
ranking officials, together with cameramen and broadcasters.

The most important of the officials
to arrive—Maitland was to find out—was known as the Deputy Supreme Master of
State Ceremonies and Public Rejoicings. This man’s name was Mr Excellency Busho
and he strongly resembled Mr Kade, except that he was plumper. He carried a
rolled up black and yellow umbrella. There was really a great deal to watch,
for there was constant traffic on the road and towards noon an infantry
battalion two thousand strong, marched through the village and pitched camp
nearby. Opposite the school a platform was erected for the cameramen. Maitland
heard later that an official of the Chief Inquirer’s Bureau paid a visit to Dr
Lewis’s house and demanded to see Mr Kade. The visiting official was perfectly
satisfied that the local Inquirer was being accorded proper medical treatment
on seeing him in bed with a bandage round his head and “resting” peacefully! At
three o’clock
Maitland took the children outside. Mr Busho came strutting from headquarters
and addressed the teacher in a squeaky voice. “The children are to form a happy
group,” he said. “When the car that is taking part in the rehearsal approaches,
they will wave the flags with all the symptoms of vast excitement and delight.
Any child who does not exhibit these symptoms is to be punished. “I
understand,” said Maitland. “We will proceed with the rehearsal,” rapped Mr
Busho. He waddled away and got into an open car which was driven away a few
hundred yards and then turned. At the gate of each house stood villagers, who
had also been given flags to wave. On the platform, the cameramen took the
opportunity to make their arrangements. The car came slowly along with Mr Busho
raising his podgy hand in salute. The cameramen followed him with their
telescopic lens. The broadcasters, on the balcony of the inn, rehearsed their
commentaries. The reluctant people of Hopebridge waved flags and shouted. Noddy
Jones raised his top hat. At a sign from Maitland the children fluttered their
flags and tried to look happy. Noddy shambled across the road. He pushed a
scrap of paper into Maitland’s hand. “It was given to me by the man with the
scar,” he said. Maitland took a quick glance at the paper. Chesney had
scribbled—“Will see you as soon as possible. Coax Kushies into letting you ring
school bell when Marshal Ku comes through.” Mr Busho descended from the car and
waddled back towards the school. “The enthusiasm was not enough and must be
increased,” he blustered. “I have a lowly suggestion to make,” said Maitland.
“In Britain, in
the past, occasions of rejoicing have been marked by bell ringing. Would it not
add to the spirit of enthusiasm if I rang the school bell?” “The suggestion is
approved,” answered Mr Busho. “We will place a microphone to pick up the clang
of the bell.” “When is the great occasion to be?” Maitland asked. “That
question is not permitted,” snapped Mr Busho. Late that evening, Maitland heard
several quick taps on the back door of the schoolhouse. He opened it swiftly
and Chesney edged in. “What have you done about the bell?” Chesney asked at
once. “The suggestion is approved,” Maitland said. Chesney’s eyes gleamed with
satisfaction. “That’s what we wanted!” he exclaimed. “We needed a signal, a
signal that will be heard over the wireless not only in this country, but in Europe and America.
Everything is ready for Zero Hour, John, and Zero Hour will strike when the
bell of HopebridgeSchool rings out!”

The Last Fight

Three days
afterwards all work was stopped in Britain. The
order was that everyone should listen in. “This was London, now
Sub Capital Three,” announced the soapy voice of the Kushanti announcer. “A
supreme honour has been conferred upon the OccupiedLand of Britain. An
hour ago the Most Illustrious and All Powerful Marshal Ku arrived by air and is
now on his way by road to a castle in the occupied Midlands, which
will form his headquarters during his stay. Everywhere Marshal Ku is being
received with joy and gratitude and you will hear eye-witness accounts of his
triumphal progress through the country.”

Every twenty yards along the roads
was placed a Kushanti trooper. In Hopebridge a sentry, back turned to the
street, stood outside every gate, watching the people. Flags fluttered
everywhere. Outside the school the children were massed. On the opposite side
of the roadway Captain Fang commanded a guard of honour. Aircraft started to
roar overhead in great numbers. Then armed motor cyclists raced through the
village. Mr Busho bustled about in a growing state of agitation and the row of
wireless commentators began to chatter into their microphones. The story of
Marshal Ku’s triumphant progress was going out across the world, to Europe, to America, to
Kushanti. Then into sight came the head of the procession. Gleaming armoured
cars formed the vanguard. The bayonets of the Imperial Guards standing in troop
carriers, glinted in the bleak sunshine. Anti-aircraft guns reared upwards on
their transporters. Seven cars glided along. In each car sat one member of the
Oligarchy, some in uniform, some in silk hats and frock coats. In the seventh
car lolled Marshal Ku. His jeweled hand rested on the encrusted diamonds in his
sword hilt. He was enormously fat, but his beady eyes had an indescribable
cunning. The cameras whirred. Mr Busho waved his umbrella at the children who
waved their little flags and yelled shrilly. A keen ear might have detected
sounds of derision in the din. Inside the school, Maitland tugged at the rope
and the bell clanged in a wild turbulent jangle that over the wireless, was
heard across the world. The procession left Hopebridge behind. The vehicles
turned into the straight mile, where the road passed between trees. The engines
of a Kushanti plane streaking overhead banged and stopped. The nose of the
plane dropped. With a scream, the aircraft plunged to the ground and exploded,
not half a mile from the road. Marshal Ku and his escorts stared up in
bewilderment, and in increasing consternation, as plane after plane fell out of
the skies and hurtled to the ground. Men flitted through the trees. Metal masks
covered their faces and metal gloves their hands. They carried strange looking
weapons with long, tapering barrels and a tiny bore. They were atomic weapons.

Their leader fired at a Kushanti
armoured car. The bullet pinged against the steel plates of the vehicle and, in
an instant, the vehicle melted in a searing blast of flame. Car after car
crumpled into nothingness as the atomic bullets struck them. The Kushanti
Imperial Guards perished like reeds caught in the holocaust of a forest fire.
The seven members of the Oligarchy stood with ropes round their necks, ready to
be led away. Marshal Ku, whose ruthlessness had filled a million graves, stood
quaking and slobbering like a mass of blubber. His captor took off his mask. Ku
saw no mercy in the eyes of Major Chesney, the scar faced man who held him
prisoner. At the ringing of the school bell, across the Western World every
military and naval base of the Asiatics, every camp, every aerodrome, was
seared out of existence by the new British atomic weapons that men had trained
to control. Off Portland, five
Kushanti aircraft carriers melted and sank within a minute when caught in an atomic
ray aimed from the Dorset hills.
This was one small incident in the war that raged for one afternoon. All over Britain, tense
and incredulous, people waited in front of their wireless sets. All over Britain there
were tears and astounded cheers when at six
o’clock, Big Ben chimed and struck the hour. “This is London!” came
the announcement. “It has just been announced by the Commander-in-Chief of the
British Resistance Army that the occupation of Britain by the
Kushantis has ended. Victory total and complete, has been attained. Her Majesty
the Queen is on her way from her unconquered Scottish fortress to London.
Marshal Ku is a prisoner in our hands. God Save The Queen.” Over the air boomed
the sound of the National Anthem. In Hopebridge, Captain Fang put an end to his
troubles by falling on his sword. Bereft of leadership, the troopers hung about
like stupefied louts till they were disarmed and led off to prison camps. Soon,
from America and
the Continent, came the news that the use of atomic weapons in those lands had
met with equal success. The school bell at Hopebridge had tolled for the doom
of the Kushanti regime and the return of freedom to the world. Next day the
children had a holiday and Maitland was walking down the street when Mr Kade,
who had a few hours ago recovered consciousness, strutted out of the doctor’s
house. Fury blazed in Kade’s eyes. “I arrest you for assault upon my person,”
he hissed balefully. Maitland yelled with laughter. “Look up there, Mr Kade!”
he roared and pointed at the church tower. The Inquirer’s eyes bulged as he saw
the Union Jack streamed out in the fresh breeze. “It is forbidden to fly any
flag other than that of the Yellow Sword,” he spluttered. “You’d better bring
yourself up to date, Inquirer!” guffawed Maitland. “You were on the losing
side!” Leaving Mr Kade gawping at the Union Jack, Maitland strode away with
vigorous steps, a man with a new purpose in life. Britain had
grievous wounds to heal, but the night was over and a bright new day had
dawned.